Spawn of Shepard
by TheJackinati275
Summary: A few months before Adelle Shepard left earth to join the alliance as a soldier, she gave birth to a child. But how does her son feel seventeen years later, after being abandoned? can her son forgive Shepard? can Shepard forgive her son's actions in life? will things turn sour? what of the Turian who is brought into this situation?


Spawn of Shepard.

* * *

Disclaimer: Mass Effect owned by EA and Bioware

Just to Clarify, This is an AU, and as such the age of Shepard has been altered by a few years so that her son can be old enough for this story.

This is a revised, and in my opinion, a vastly improved version of my older story. I'll keep the old version up if anybody want's to see the old story.

* * *

Prologue:

Fuck my arm's are aching...

"89-90-91"

It's not like I'll need all this exercise now...

"92"

But what else is there to do on this shithole.

"93"

Nobody here really cares about me, I'm not worth a credit to anybody...

"94"

Okay, that's not entirely honest...

"95"

I'm worth a little bit, to the drug dealers back on earth at least... but then they are mostly the same kind of person as me.

"96"

Poor, neglected, disenfranchised... thrown away by the world which doesn't see us for what we are.

"97"

The world... this galaxy... It is fucked. Fucked.

"98"

I'm apathetic about the streets, now. The hobo's lining the pavements and the whores plying their trade behind alleyway corners... and the pimp's strutting forth like they own the place. I've just lived with that shit for far too long now that I am just not affected by it anymore. But if you look at it... you see the system and it's ugly truth... we don't matter. We just don't.

"99"

But then, I can't be apathetic about my own life... I mean, I hate myself that little bit, for even being born... but my subconscious tell's me that I shouldn't hate myself, that I should be happy where I am, and then I feel weird. Like I just don't fucking care about the world anymore, or about my life... but something in my brain tells me that I should care... it's weird.

"100!"

Is a seventeen-year-old supposed to ponder these questions... I mean... I don't know, but what can I do?

What do I want to do in life... is crime going to be my only future?

But what can I do other than spot myself in the mirror like a fucking narcissistic weirdo doing these exercises, just talking to myself in my mind... playing this inner monologue, this depressing inner monologue of inner torment and pain... and rejection. It's as if I am a scribe, waiting for somebody to read about my shitty life, as though anybody would fucking care about me, though.

Yeah, I'm negative... but don't I have that right?

But maybe, it would be nice to leave something of me behind. Maybe I've just grown on the inside... or maybe I just want to tell people, anyone for that matter... just to show for once that I do matter.

And so, with my part said and done In my head, I set my fingers to the orange thing around my arm. This omni-tool as they are called is an awesome device. I am surprised Kahlee didn't throw it away, or block my personal access to it.

My name is Alexander Leinrough, though I simply go by Alex... it's shorter that way... and I hate it when people give me that fucking 'Greek' hero bullshit when they see my facial scar. "Hey look, It's Alexander the great, he's been in battle!"... Fucking nerdy Grissom academy kids. Though, I have to admit... I didn't mind it at first, but it just got... old.

I'm not all that impressive, not impressive enough to be called 'Alexander the Great'. I have short brown hair that borders on being black, a decent amount of muscle for my age... not a body-builder, but not a couch potato either. I must be about 5'8-5'10 in height, I don't know what it was the last time I checked. I also like to think that I have impressive cheeks (Though I'll let you ponder on whether I mean on my ass or my face, or both), I even have the beginnings of a beard coming along.

Am I pretty?

That's a good question, because how does one ' _be pretty_ '... I don't think that I am all that handsome, or attractive. When I look in the mirror all I see is a scar on my face and my bitter eyes, I don't care about the rest. Maybe other's view me that way, as being pretty or handsome, but I wouldn't be able to tell you. I am just your average looking boy in the looks department, I think, with my own problems and my own pimples to tend to every once and a while. Usual teenage/manly stuff, I guess.

Yeah... exercise is kind of expected when all you've got to do for fun is to either jack-off, write sad journal entries or do push-ups and sit-ups and jog around when you are stuck in a metal box. This metal box with the title of 'Grissom academy', being inside of it for a year whilst being on a virtual 'lockdown'. I can't even fucking shave because Kahlee Sanders is afraid I'll go around killing people with a razor.

I'll admit that I am a bad guy, but I am not an animal. But if the bitch wants to treat me like an animal, then some day I'll just have to show her what an animal really looks like, so she can fucking distinguish the difference. I am a product of my environment, not some unfeeling, unremorseful killer, Kahlee doesn't seem to understand that, which pisses me off just as much as it hurts me on the inside to know that no matter what I do, some stigma will still remain because of what I did.

You know, I'll probably never be able to get another sort of job or be rehabilitated... I'd probably have to end up going back into crime to make a livelihood... just because of how fucked up the Alliance system can be. That is unless I decide to join the Alliance military, they have that rehabilitation program for youths... but there is no way in hell that I'm going to fight, and in all eventuality, die for that same fucked-up system that says I'll never get that job, just because of where I am from, or of my situation. You can be Black, White, Asian or a Jew... but in all eventuality... If you are very poor, you'll likely be passed over for that job... unless you like working with sewage and shit all day long.

The scar on my face, it really completes my 'tough guy' imagery, and will definitely ensure that I'll never get a desk-job. I was a young kid at the time, twelve or so when I got it... I got into a fight. It's wasn't your ordinary schoolhouse brawl, this was serious shit, twelve-year-olds and up with rebar clubs and construction piping... not fucking nice. I took one to the right cheek... almost broke a jaw. I grabbed the pipe by my hand after it stalled and I started beating down on the one who hit me with it... I was dazed and couldn't see who done it to me until I was done with my 'fist-work' and my head had cleared and the blood was wiped from my eyes, by which case... I had killed my first person. I never was the same again.

That was when I 'joined up' with the Grim Devils, essentially a small-time biker-esque gang that became fast enemies with the tenth street reds.

I had money for the first time in my entire life and I didn't know what to do with it, it might be seen as 'dirty money' by some... but are you a fucking orphan in the fucked-up streets of New-fuckin-Joisey... I didn't think so. I couldn't give a shit about the stigma of holding 'dirty money'... I just want the same things as everybody else does, the things that are denied to me because of my situation being what it was. Petty shit, now that I reflect on it really, but a working television really changed my life, or a working stovetop... I like to think that I improved things for the orphanage, though... makes me sleep better at night sometimes. They are like my brothers and sisters... I wish I could get in contact with some of them... It hurt when some of them got adopted, but it hurt in a good way because I would feel their absence, that was what hurt, the silence.

In the end, I moved out of the orphanage and paid for my own teeny-tiny little apartment, got my own electricity and I went to high school, which I paid the enrollment fee's with my own money. Just because I beat up motherfuckers with sticks or other things as a side job doesn't mean that I shouldn't learn a thing or two on the side, some street kids were like me with this attitude, other's were just teenagers who thought too highly of themselves, or thought that education was 'fucking stupid'. I had aspirations and dreams... who doesn't, and getting most job's required going through year-10 English at the bare-minimum. English motherfucker, do you speak it!

But then, I reached higher up the chain... started drug-running myself. Then one day, I was given a pistol, a Striker II I believe, and a single order... kill some low-life Tenth Street Red lieutenant. I killed him in cold blood, a straight-up series of shots delivered from roughly twenty meters away, then I ran. It wasn't even personal, like when you beat somebody up... I just pulled the trigger, and heard the sounds, and watched the impacts as they hit, Impersonal in a way.

Turn's out there was a sting operation by the Alliance... and I got caught. It also turned out that Anderson... _The_ Human Councillor Anderson decided to send me off to Grissom academy, where he said... and I quote "That _I_ might better myself, by attending at Grissom Academy"... yeah right.

Grissom academy is filled with space-magicians... or biotically gifted people if you want to be technical. I fucking don't like biotic's... they have some sort of predilection towards thinking that they are somehow superior to me because they have magic... and me being who I am, I like to give them the finger and tell them that no... we are all the same in this fucking shit-hole of an existence.

When I first arrived here some local bully, probably born to rich parents who loved and adored their little cunt-of-a-son, this bully thought he was tough shit who also thought that it would be a good idea, no... a _great idea_ to trip over my chair before I could take a seat. I had a plate of food in my hand's at the time and couldn't even grab the chair myself...

So I told him to pick up my chair for me, to which he responded with "Fuck no, you uneducated pleb... you must have tripped it over with your fat-ass."

I'll tell you one thing... I would hate to be the 'Patrician' on that day. You can think that because of who I am, that I am somehow dumb enough or simply uneducated enough to not understand an ancient social class from ancient Rome... well that's at your own prerogative... but you don't dare fuck with me. Don't you ever... _ever_ fuck with me... I will fuck up your shit, and I don't play games. You can call me an arsenal of words... but the moment you fuck with me, I will fuck with you.

I hope the kid enjoyed eating soup through a straw for the next few weeks... because I certainly didn't enjoy being put on 'lockdown' for it. At least a lesson was learned, the kid won't ever spout his mouth off to me again.

 **"This is Kahlee Sanders... We are under attack... all student's please remain** **calm an** **... BZzzzzzkkk"**

Well, shit, there goes my inner monologue.

* * *

"Okay... I'm going to need something to defend myself with." Alex said, alarm on his face.

Alex rushed out of his bathroom, grimacing at his previous exertion from his exercises he had just been through. He donned a plain black shirt before searching for something that might serve as a weapon... for his _defense_ , of course.

He scanned through his room an object at a time, looking for anything that might be suitable... and found it in the metal feet of his bed. He grabbed a nearby chair and forced the legs against the frame of the bed, and using leverage and strength, waited until the metal legs gave way. Alex knew that one of those leg's would make for a decent cudgel, they could be quite wieldy. It had some heft to it and it was not very hollow so it was less likely to bend or break under duress.

"Seem's I've got a good weapon out of you, you were a shit bed anyway." Alex said as he reached for the metal leg post, before grinning to himself at his own joke.

It might seem strange that he was talking to himself... but it was something that Alex did to keep himself company, after being alone for quite a lot of time.

"Now, what should I do?"

Alex pondered on that important question for a few moments, and only one choice ranked very highly. The biotic bloc, would in all likelihood, be the safest place to be in the event of an attack.

Alex didn't trust Kahlee Sanders and he certainly wasn't sure about her ability to keep him safe. It was for this reason that Alex made his cudgel in the first place. The same could be said of Kahlee Sanders attitude towards Alex, she didn't exactly lay out a red-carpet for Alex, but she did not say another word when she heard that Councillor Anderson waived him in.

Alex actually had no clue why he was even allowed to such a prestigious academy since he had no biotics.

Throwing his fate to fortune's pale hands, he dashed for the door and opened it, craning his head through the doorway and checking that both sides were cleared before going through.

"South... biotic's block is south."

A minute into his trek and a few corners turned, Alex spotted someone wearing an all-white uniform which featured accents of gold and black on the shoulders and back. Alex had no idea of the meaning or of the affiliated group, but he did notice that he had his back turned to Alex. He saw that the man had an exposed neck that was covered only by the standard cloth armour and padding common on almost all suits of defensive gear.

But would it be enough to withstand the force from a strike of Alex's makeshift cudgel? Alex wasn't a physics expert, but with the right amount of momentum, speed and mass... there ought to be enough force going through that would have nowhere else to go but into the man's neck and spinal-cord. And there was nothing solid that the guy was wearing on his neck that could further distribute the energy. The gear was padded with synth-fibres of immense strength, but it ought to be flexible.

Whilst the odd figure was fiddling with his omni-tool, Alex sneaked up behind the figure and made sure to be within four meters of him, just enough of a distance to gather enough of a run to help add further force into his strike, but not enough that the guy could hear his approach and turn around and shoot his firearm before Alex could hit him.

Before racing in, Alex searched around for a security camera or other source... being so that he wouldn't leave behind visual evidence of his 'misdeeds'... Alex didn't want to spend time in an actual Jail.

Finding none, Alex went forward into his rush with both hands holding his weapon, cudgel faced to the back of Alex as he readied for the great blow.

It came not a moment later when Alex swung his hips and moved his arm's, and the cudgel came slamming forth with great power, enough that the man's head seemed to move slower than the violent movement of the man's neck as he fell down to the ground.

"Fucking god..."

Alex's hands shook from the power of the strike... anybody taking a hit from that stood a high chance of being dead.

"Shit, you've got a tough neck."

Alex rubbed his now-aching hands for a moment before he decided to check to see if the man still had a heartbeat... he was dead. No surprises.

Alex cautiously scrounged through the corpse and carefully unbuckled his kinetic barrier belt, which Alex firmly placed around his own hips. A moment later, Alex found the guy's pistol. It looked to be of high quality... and had a sheening white paint-job, much like most of the uniform.

Alex observed the sides of the weapon and spotted a letter and a number.

"M5 huh... I wonder if you are any good"

Alex found a red button to the right side of the gun with his index finger, which caused the gun to unfold itself until it was fully slung and at the ready.

Alex searched the corpse again, taking the man's omni-tool and seeing if it was valuable. Alex did a quick search through the database and found only one thing of interest... it was a document titled very clearly.

* * *

 **High-Priority Target.**

Student ID: 18-82B Alex Leinrough.

Capture priority Alpha: Bring back alive at all costs.

The Illusive Man believes that this teenager is the only known biological son of Adelle Shepard. He is to be considered a low-level threat, given his criminal past.

It is best to retrieve the subject alive to be transported back to the Cerberus Headquarters. Failure to retrieve the subject, alive or dead, is not an option.

* * *

Equal amounts of shock, surprise, and anger fought for dominance in Alex's mind.

Who hadn't heard of Adelle Shepard... from Business C.E.O's to hobo's on the streets, everyone knew of her or had heard of her, in some small fashion.

Yet, he couldn't help to feel somewhat relieved... but extremely pissed, that he had found who his parent was... after all this time, and it was through this of all things, that he finally found the identity of his mother.

Alex did not know how to handle the situation.

"Fuck... I... how do I?... no, fuck that bitch, she left me... I don't owe her anything, not a fucking thing."

Alex was not exactly happy at this moment. Alex gripped his gun extra tight and began to stand up straight again, readying himself to continue his trek further. One thought carrying him through at this moment... the search for an answer.

But would this answer fix things... or make things worse?

"Alright, you alliance bitch... If I find you, you better give me answers... or the so-called 'reapers' will be the least of your fucked-up problems."

As Alex spoke to himself with anger, Alex found his resolve to continue on.

* * *

Chapter 1: An Explanation

Adelle Shepard tapped her fingers against the metal post, Shepard stood idle... boredly gazing into the spinning eye of the galaxy map that filled up most of the CIC room on the Normandy.

An electronic pinging noise sounded, and Shepard recognized it as the sound of an omni-tool that had just received a message.

Samantha Traynor reached out her hand towards her omni-tool held on her left wrist before reading the message that she had just received.

"Shepard... I just found something while scanning through some Alliance channels... Grissom academy is requesting help"

Adelle's heart almost seized upon hearing the word 'Grissom academy'. Her mind quickly swayed to thoughts about her son that she had never raised... never seen in her entire life, the son that she had hoped to see as soon as the war was over. When Anderson had told her that her son had been sent to Grissom academy under strict orders to keep her son away from the violence on earth... away from the gangs and crime, Shepard had been consumed by the desire to finally see her son. But, after the aratoht incident and being impounded for six months... and now with the Reaper invasion... she never got the opportunity that she had wished for. That would change... right now.

 _'There are many, many light years between us, Alexander... But I'll find you, I swear it... And I will keep you safe!'_

"Shepard are you listening to me?"

Shepard shook her head from her thoughts and replied back to Traynor.

"Tell Joker to set course for Grissom academy... Tell him that if he doesn't make it in the fastest time possible, I'll dock his pay for a month!"

Samantha Traynor saluted back before speaking her affirmative.

"Aye Aye ma'am"

Shepard quickly lifted herself off the metal pole that she had lain against and rushed for the elevator. She reached her cabin in record time, quickly slotting on her N7 gear and leaving just as quickly with her weapons attached to her back.

Shepard paced herself up and down the stairs, hasty thoughts dawning and drowning in the sea of Shepard's mind, fear and anxiousness overwhelming her.

 _'God, how am I supposed to explain this to Garrus... how?'_

After about a minute, she finally gathered up the courage to call out to the AI.

"Edi... tell Garrus to come up to my cabin... now."

"Affirmative Commander."

Garrus arrived four minutes later, Shepard deep in thought whilst carefully entered the room. He was in his distinctive chrome and blue hard suit, his face was frowning, worry showing in the way that distinctly Turian way of his.

"Shepard"

Adelle paused for moment, startled.

"Garrus... remember when I told you about my life on earth?"

Garrus stood up straight and replied back.

"Yes... about you and the Tenth Street Reds and how you joined the Alliance to escape."

Shepard sighed before deciding to reveal her biggest secret.

"Garrus... I'll be frank... I had 'relations' with a man when I was young... and I had a child."

Garrus's mandibles moved in shock, but he remained dead silent.

"Yeah... It doesn't sound right... does it. Me, with a child... but It happened. I just left him outside the doorstep of an orphanage, in a basket... like you see In the vids. I couldn't even look at my child... that is fucked up, I know... but at the time, I hated it, my child... because I was raped."

Shepard looked at Garrus and gestured to the sides with her hands and spoke back.

"But now... all I want to do is to see him, my little boy," Shepard punched a wall with her fist whilst she began to cry. "I'm so fucked up, Garrus."

Garrus rushed over to console his lover.

"I am a terrible fucking mother"

Garrus spoke into her ears.

"No you are not, it was the only choice you had open to you that made sense at the time... but that does not make you a bad mother. If you were a bad mother, you wouldn't be rushing in to save him from reapers, or Cerberus terrorists... or whatever."

Shepard looked up into Garrus's eyes before asserting her new-found confidence.

"No I am not... a horrible mother. I am taking back my son!"

Garrus decided to clear the air. "So... I have a 'son'... it feels odd, saying that, I am a father now. Shepard... I know what I was stepping into when I agreed to... whatever we are now, lovers? But... I'm ready for this too, being a father."


End file.
